


Texts from Last Night

by kattale



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bar Pickups, M/M, casual disregard of possible drunk driving, dub-con due to intoxication, mating games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:23:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattale/pseuds/kattale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my submission for Challenge #2 of the Teen Wolf Mating Games Challenge.  This challenge was to draw a prompt or prompts from the Texts From Last Night website.<br/>I was prompted by the following texts:<br/>http://www.textsfromlastnight.com/Text-Replies-29852.html<br/>http://www.textsfromlastnight.com/Text-Replies-43183.html<br/>http://www.textsfromlastnight.com/Text-Replies-21992.html</p><p>Warnings: Underage, dub-con due to intoxication, drunken lack of concern for possible drunk-driving</p>
    </blockquote>





	Texts from Last Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is my submission for Challenge #2 of the Teen Wolf Mating Games Challenge. This challenge was to draw a prompt or prompts from the Texts From Last Night website.  
> I was prompted by the following texts:  
> http://www.textsfromlastnight.com/Text-Replies-29852.html  
> http://www.textsfromlastnight.com/Text-Replies-43183.html  
> http://www.textsfromlastnight.com/Text-Replies-21992.html
> 
> Warnings: Underage, dub-con due to intoxication, drunken lack of concern for possible drunk-driving

It was nearing dawn when Stiles tiptoed up the stairs to his room, shoes in his hand. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing he had the agility of a were’ so that he could scale the grape arbour and climb directly into his bedroom through the window. With luck, his Dad would assume he’d been home most of the night. If not, well, he always had Scott as a fallback excuse.

Shucking his jeans, he threw himself down on his mattress with a wince, curled up on his side and took out his phone, checking for messages. Yup, there was one from Scott:

(Scott:) Sorry for bailing, bro! Saw Allison on the dance floor. She wanted to talk, so we went for a walk.

Stiles rolled his eyes. Yeah right, talk. He grinned and shot back a reply:

(630): Don't worry I drank 7 more beers & brought home a guy that bit me at the bar.

That should get a rise out of old Scotty-boy. Stiles chuckled.

They’d been at the club less than an hour before Scott had flaked out on him, leaving Stiles sitting at the bar, flirting with the bartenders and trying to cajole them into selling him something stronger than a coke. He’d looked up to find his favourite creepy werewolf, Derek Hale, seated at the far end of the bar, scowling into his drink, preternaturally still against the backdrop of the noisy and bustling dance-floor. He looked – odd. And sad. So very out of place in the riot of vibrant light and motion and colour.

Of COURSE Stiles couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie (so to speak – heh!) so he’d put his life on the line, pulled up a stool and warmly offered to let Derek buy him a beer. He guessed Derek must have been startled into compliance – he’d have to remember to try that again – and more surprisingly, after Stiles’ enthusiastic greeting and relentless chatter, it hadn’t taken more than – what, three consecutive drinks? Does alcohol even work on werewolves? - before Mr. Broody-face had pulled himself out his gloom and started to respond.

Sure, it had been one- or two-word answers at first. But the turnaround had come when they touched on the topic of the mass of humanity crowding the club. “They’re happy,” Derek shrugged. “Busy. Sometimes it’s just easier being alone in the middle of a crowd, than being alone on my own.” And thus began an hours-long discussion on the semantic and philosophical differences between being a loner, being lonely, and being alone. A topic, it turns out, on which they both had much to say.

Once they’d waded through THAT emotional minefield, it didn’t seem like either of them was surprised at the end of the night when Stiles had opened the passenger door of the Camaro and calmly seated himself next to Derek. Derek certainly didn’t kick Stiles out. They’d totally got each other, Stiles thought, as he’d followed Derek up the staircase to his room and crawled on top of him on the bed. Derek’s arms had come up around him, their hips aligned and their lips met, and if there was a better way to bond a pack, Stiles’ brain was too flooded with teenaged hormones to think of it.

Stiles flushed with a rush of pleasure at the memories of bare skin, hands and mouths, tongues and teeth. He raised a hand to his neck, aware that he had a brilliant set of bruises to prove his adventure. Neither of them had shown much restraint once the clothes had come off, and Stiles wasn’t really sure which of them had looked more wrecked at the end of it, after they’d both had a turn at the plundering and ravaging and general getting to know each other really, really, REALLY well. Multiple times.

They were totally friends now. At least. He’d even scored a phone number – that made it “something”, right? His thumbs tapped out a quick message to Derek:  
.  
(514): Thanks for having me and my emotional baggage over last night.

Stiles rolled over onto his back, winced, and quickly sent out a follow-up text: 

(509): I would also like to inform you that I can no longer lay on my back because my tailbone is bruised from the nightstand. Good job.

With a final smile, Stiles set down his phone, pulled the blankets over his head, and went to sleep.


End file.
